Poetry by Stella R Stocker
The candle coughs out
prophecies, announces in an orange
peel of flame, the arrival of a ghost.
Your sister, crying soot, weaves her
fingers through mine, thumb through
the hold of the planchette. In my planter
box, shaded by slips of marigold petals,
dew is bubbling up from the dirt.
Your sister is a tense, waiting gray.
You sit at the particle board table,
hair drawn over the eye that watches
me. The table crouches wearing
receipts, candles, a shard of rose
quartz, and a Pink Lady apple,
rolling in the socket of the fruit bowl.
Your sister, hovering near the stove,
stirs the red potatoes. Clenching hearts.
I love grief more than I love anyone else.
